“Most sincerely do I thank you, Lanigan; he will arrange with you when and where to see me again.  Farewell, Reilly—­farewell; rely upon my constancy;” and so they parted, Reilly to the kitchen, and the Cooleen Bawn to her own room.

“Come into the pantry, poor man,” said good-natured Lanigan, addressing our hero, “till I give you’ something to eat and drink.”

“Many thanks to you, sir,” replied he; “troth and whaix, I didn’t taste a morshel for the last fwhour—­hugh—­hugh-and twenty hours; and sure, sir, it’s this cough that’s killin’ me by inches.”

A thought struck Lanigan, who had been also spoken to by the gardener, about half an hour before, to know if he could tell him where he might have any chance of finding an assistant.  At all events they went into the pantry, when Lanigan, after having pulled to the door, to prevent their conversation from being overheard, disclosed a project, which had just entered his head, of procuring Reilly employment in the garden.  Here it was arranged between them that the latter, who was both a good botanist and florist, should be recommended to the gardener as an assistant.  To be sure, his dress and appearance were both decidedly against him; but still they relied upon the knowledge which Reilly confidently assured the cook that he possessed.  After leaving the pantry with Lanigan, whom our hero thanked in a thorough brogue, the former called after him, as he was going away: 

“Come here again, my good man.”

“What is it, shir? may God bless you anyhow, for your charity to the—­hugh—­hugh—­hugh—­to the poor man.  Oh, then, but it’s no wondher for you all to be fat and rosy upon sich beautiful vittles as you gave to me, shir.  What is it, achora? and may the Lord mark you with grace!”

“Would you take employment from the master, his honor Mr. Folliard, if you got it?”

“Arrah now, shir, you gave me my skinful of what was gud; but don’t be luakin’ fwhun o’ me after.  Would I take employment, achora?—­ay, but where would I get it?”

“Could you work in a garden?  Do you know any thing about plants or flowers?”

“Oh thin, that I may never sup sarra (sorrow), but that’s just what I’m fwhit fwhor.”

“I’m afeared this scoundrel is but an imposthor afther all,” whispered Lanigan to the other servants; “but in ordher to make sure, we’ll try him.  I say—­what’s this your name is?”

“Solvesther M’Bethershin, shir.”

“Well, now, would you have any objection to come with me to the garden and see I the gardener?  But hould, here he is.  Mr. Malcomson,” continued Lanigan, “here is a poor man, who says he understands plants and flowers, and weeds of that kind.”

“Speak wi’ reverence, Mr. Lanigan, o’ the art o’ gerdening.  Dinna ye ken that the founder o’ the hail human race was a gerdener?-Hout awa, moil; speak o’ it wi’ speck.”